


Vienna Blood - Intimate Interludes

by Trawler



Category: Vienna Blood (TV)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, M/M, Office Sex, Psychology, Secretary - Freeform, brief mention of kink, freud - Freeform, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23737279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trawler/pseuds/Trawler
Summary: Dr. Max Liebermann's working relationship with Detective Oskar Reinhardt has developed into a personal relationship:- a few hours of illicit pleasure in Reinhardt's apartment. Two weeks later, the detective visits Max's new office, their first meeting since they crossed that line. Their tension soon spills over into a continuation of their first intimate interlude...
Relationships: Max Liebermann & Oskar Rheinhardt, Max Liebermann/Oskar Rheinhardt
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Vienna Blood - Intimate Interludes

**Author's Note:**

> This is based solely on the TV series - I haven't read the books yet, but they're on my list and I will get to them in due course.  
> I understand that this piece reads like the continuation of a series, referencing an event that I haven't written. If this story gets enough interest I'll consider writing it.  
> As ever, comments and feedback are welcomed :)

“Dr. Liebermann, Detective Reinhardt is here to see you.”

Max looked up from his notes. The ledger in which he wrote was new, only a few pages consumed, a gift from a father who – despite frequently verbalised objections – supported his son.

“Please show him in,” he told his secretary. Frau Schmidt was a stern-faced woman in her early fifties. She wore her thick blonde hair in a respectable style, with tiny gold-framed spectacles perched on the end of her nose. He strongly suspected she was a friend of his mother, judging by the way she kept an eye on his comings and goings. He longed to know. But unless she brought it up in conversation, it would be impolite to ask. 

Schmidt nodded and left his office. He used those final moments to complete his notes, blowing on the ink to help it dry, then capped his fountain pen. 

He stood and readied a smile as Reinhardt entered. This was the first time the detective had visited his new office.

“A pleasure to see you, as always.”

Reinhardt’s answering smile seemed strained. His forehead was creased. He clutched his hat between both hands, bending the rim between his fingers. 

“The pleasure is mine.” The tension in his posture was reflected in his voice. “This place is well situated – you are doing well for yourself, yes?”

His comment made Max recollect the journey he’d taken to get to this point. Professor Gruner’s decision to suspend him had proven a blessing in disguise (at least, that was how he’d chosen to interpret something that could have destroyed his career.) He was sure Gruner had intended him to crawl back with his tail between his legs, never more to mention the ground-breaking ideas of Dr. Freud, or dare to engage in anything the Professor himself had not sanctioned. But Max had refused to bow to his hide-bound ideologies; he’d taken his skills, his intellect, his ideas, to another hospital. And there he’d completed his training. A Junior Doctor no more, but a fully-fledged physician. A physician who had received a small loan from his father – along with a healthy dose of familial guilt – and opened this practice.

“Well, it’s early days,” Max said. “But I am cautiously positive.” He glanced at his ledger – the ink seemed dry. He closed the book and placed it in the top drawer; fishing a set of keys from the pocket of his trousers, he locked the drawer and returned the key to his pocket. “I am also cautiously eager. There are a great many people for whom the idea of electro-convulsive therapy is... distasteful. Especially when modern therapies are proving so successful.”

“Distasteful.” Reinhardt arched an eyebrow. “You tell me that patients are strapped to a table and then have electricity forced through their brains. You call it merely distasteful?”  
Max’s lips thinned. “To those with a mind to listen, I would call it downright barbaric. We are supposed to be an _enlightened_ society.”

“We are only as enlightened as the lowest of our kind.”

His lips thinned further. “Spoken like a true policeman. Is that the reason for your visit? Do you have another case?”

“No. I do not require you for the purposes of consultation.”

Max knew – with a quickening of his heartbeat – the true reason for his sometime colleague’s presence. It had been barely two weeks since the interlude at Reinhardt’s apartment. The memories of that time were burned into his memory.

“Is this how it is to be?” he remarked. Excitement burned in the pit of his stomach. “Am I simply an itch that must be scratched?”

“Dammit, Max!” Reinhardt strode around the desk, slapping his hat down. “You know me well enough...”

Max stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated by the stockier man’s proximity. But a tremble had started in his arms, working down from his shoulders, and would soon translate to his hands. He balled them into fists. Fear? Excitement? The lines between each had blurred.

“I know you intimately,” he said, staring down into Reinhardt’s face. He was half a head taller than the detective, though built on slender lines. “A man driven by guilt. Unable to move on from the death of his daughter. Unable to accept that his wife left him.” He lowered his voice, mindful of Frau Schmidt in the adjoining room. “So thoroughly dedicated to his job that he seeks solace and understanding in the arms of another.” His smile was bitter. “I know you intimately, and yet sometimes I don’t feel I know you at all.”

“You think you know so much, or so little?” Reinhardt growled, his voice equally low though no less impassioned. “Let me tell you what I know about _you._ A spoiled little Jewish boy, the apple of his parents’ eyes, a glittering career in medicine ahead of him.”

“No –”

“A boy engaged to a beautiful woman, who later ends the engagement because she sees that his head has been turned –”

“That’s not true!” Max searched his eyes, hoping for some measure of compassion, even though he had shown him none.

“Stop lying to yourself!” Reinhardt winced, looked over his shoulder at the open door, and turned back. “Your distraction,” he continued, voice pitched low, “this Fraulein Lydgate, who is she? A former mental patient with who you have developed an obsession? A modern lady who must dress in _men’s_ clothes to mock them, take a _man’s_ job to undermine them?’

“How dare you, Reinhardt –”

“Say my name, God damn you!” The detective drove him back against the wall. “Stop being a boy and show me once again that you can be a man!”

“ _Oskar._ ” The name was out of his mouth before he could stop it, a treacherous invitation, his body betraying the desires his mind could barely accept. 

Reinhardt strode over to the door, peering through.

“I am in consultation with Dr. Liebermann,” he told Frau Schmidt in a curt, clipped tone. “We are not to be disturbed!”

“Of course, Detective.” 

Max, frozen against the wall, had no direct view of his secretary, instead imagining her sat at her tiny desk. He prayed she had not heard any of their argument. While the content had certainly been questionable, they had not said anything truly damning. But what happened next was for their ears alone. 

The door was gently closed. Max heard the hard click of the key in the lock. 

“Say my name again,” Reinhardt growled, returning to his position.

Max hesitated, wondering what Freud would make of their current situation. Two men, both starved of attention from the objects of their affection. An illegal liaison, made that much more illicit by their respective stations – and the presence of Frau Schmidt in the very next room. A sizeable age gap. Was this Max’s private rebellion against his father? By showing he had some measure of control – of bewitchment, even – over a man not so far from his father’s age? Or was this Reinhardt’s illusion of control? Was Max a substitute for his daughter, the valued treasure he had to save? That could _only_ be saved during their moments alone? 

Thoughts sleeted across his mind. Damn them all! He didn’t _care_ what this meant. The consequences had never seemed so far away. There was just now, and the man waiting expectantly – persistently – devotedly? – before him.

“Oskar,” he said. The tremble in his arms had reached his legs. His voice.  
Reinhardt grabbed his arm, expressive eyes burning with emotions; desire, fear, excitement. Regret? Please, no…

“Belt.” His voice had roughened. Deepened. 

No regret.

Max obeyed, swallowing what little moisture was left in his mouth. The taboo – the thrill – the risk, God, the risk! – all merged together in his mind. He lifted trembling hands to the narrow leather belt, unfastening the buckle with clumsy fingers. He couldn’t look away. Had he thought the detective bewitched? He was such a fool! It was clearly the other way around. He was under _his_ spell, compelled to obey his whims. 

Reinhardt stopped his hands and took over, slowly pulling the belt through each loop. 

“I am not a violent man,” he remarked as leather slid across fabric, “and I would never wish to hurt you… but I would very much like to see the mark of this belt across the white skin of your backside. Or perhaps as a line around your neck.”

Max took a series of stuttering breaths. The idea of being spanked... he had explored it many times with his patients. He was sure it had connections to childhood memories of punishment. So, too, had he discussed fantasies of being choked: - another expression of power. 

“It _is_ an interesting concept,” he managed to get out, though his voice was thin and bordered on wavering. “Men show an interest in such things to exert control. But if I allow you to do them, then surely it is _me_ who has control.”

Reinhardt finished pulling the belt free, then let it drop to the floor. It landed with a sharp _thunk._

“At this point I don’t think either one of us is in control,” he admitted with a wry smile that diffused a little of the tension. Max found himself smiling in return, and it was then that the detective leaned forward and kissed him. Just a quick brush of lips over lips. Startled, wanting, Max leaned in for more. The coarseness of his beard tickled his skin, adding an extra delicious thrill to his arousal. The slick slide of tongues was disappointingly brief.

It was then he realised: - this was the first time they had kissed. That evening in Reinhardt’s apartment had been a revelation for them both, but this single act of intimacy had not been part of that revelation. He wondered what it meant. If it meant anything at all. Could they share a meaning, or would they each have their own –

“You think too much.” Reinhardt tugged Max’s trousers, dragging them over his narrow hips.

“I will not argue with that – _ah…_ ” Hs response was cut off by the hand cupping his erection. Reinhardt’s touch was more than enough to derail his speech, his thought, his whole world. 

“That is a first.” The hand moved purposefully, inside his underpants, bare palm slowly stroking the sensitive skin of Max’s cock. “Who knew that all I had to do to silence that smart mouth was to keep other parts of you occupied?”

Max flattened his hands against the wall, unconsciously pushing his hips toward that magical touch. He was caught by Reinhardt’s heated stare, trying to control his breathing, knowing that in just a short time – an embarrassingly short time – he’d be helpless to do anything but pant. 

“And there is that pretty pink blush,” Reinhardt remarked, brushing the knuckles of his free hand over Max’s cheek. His fingers straightened, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his lips. The gesture was unexpectedly tender. Max flicked his tongue over the tip of the digit.

Reinhardt’s stare this time wasn’t just heated, it burned.

Pushing Max more firmly against the wall, he stroked him with a firm, unrelenting hand. Max’s struggle for breath turned to startled gasps. He was swept away by the raw eroticism of the moment, his need to submit to this man’s controlling touch. Because he _was_ controlled – happy to abandon even the pretence of free will – a true slave to his desire. He was dimly aware that his feelings might change, that once the power of his lust waned he would berate this weakness and need.

Then even that semi-rational thought abandoned him. Reinhardt’s fingertips grazed the tightened skin of his balls, the pad of his thumb slicking moisture over the head of his cock, and it was all he could do to hold back a deep groan. The detective’s arm curled around the back of his neck, pulling his head down, pressing his face against his shoulder. He breathed deep, an open-mouthed sucking of air, inhaling Reinhardt’s scent. A shudder of pleasure wracked his body; another groan was pulled from his throat, muffled against cloth and solid flesh. Max bit the heavy cloth, imagining it was bare skin, his eyes closed as the brief fantasy stoked his arousal.

He grabbed the front of Reinhardt’s coat for support. Pulling himself closer. Desperate for more contact. He wanted skin on skin, wanted sweat and fire and the prickly rash left behind by Reinhardt’s beard on the sensitive skin of his inner thigh –

It was enough to send him over the edge. His body became rigid, trembling and shaking in the grip of orgasm. 

Finally his grip loosened, though he was reluctant to lift his face away from Reinhardt’s shoulder. His scent was comforting.

He felt his palm cup the back of his head, briefly stroking his hair. They eased apart. The touch of cool air brought with it the first stirrings of guilt, of reality and consequence, and Max fumbled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat. Reinhardt was already utilising his own handkerchief. Max cleaned himself and self-consciously righted his clothes. He took both soiled squares of cloth and shoved them into the pocket of his trousers. 

A heavy knock made them spring apart. Max scurried behind his desk.

“Detective Reinhardt?” The speaker was male. 

“I _told_ you, he’s not to be disturbed!” Frau Schmidt’s angry voice sounded through the door.

“It’s Constable Fischer, sir. We’ve found a body!”

They looked at each other. Guilt and fear passed between them, but, Max thought, also regret. Their time here – this private bubble, this moment of madness – was over. His pleasures might have been sated, but the poor detective would have to pour cold water over his passions before he even left the room.

“Open the window,” Reinhardt murmured. “You need fresh air in here before Schmidt comes in.”

Max nodded, feeling somehow… empty. Damn the police! Damn the murderer and damn the bloody victim too. He understood Reinhardt had to leave, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“Wait outside, Constable!” Reinhardt called. Looking at Max, he asked in a low voice, “Come to my apartment tonight?”

He almost laughed, but stopped before it left his mouth. He wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t turn into a choked sob. There was no time here for emotion, whatever he might feel. 

But later…?

“I’ll be there.”

THE END


End file.
